


Oak

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-14
Updated: 2017-07-14
Packaged: 2018-12-02 00:14:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11497764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Glorfindel's taken Erestor to Fangorn.





	Oak

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ulan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ulan/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for tagulansahulyo’s “10. Mountain for Glorfindel and Erestor” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/162565904960/prompt-list-3). It also fits this week’s silmread, wherein Treebeard brought Merry and Pippin to the foot of the Last Mountain. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or The Lord of the Rings any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

“And you are quite sure you do not wish to stay the night?” Treebeard asks, indicating with one long arm the entrance to his home, tucked under the waters of a falling spring. Glorfindel can already see the oversized ‘furniture’ beyond, if Ents can be said to have such things, but he looks to Erestor for answers.

Erestor politely tells their host, “No, thank you.” And Treebeard makes a little _hm, hrum_ noise from the back of his throat. But he tries to bow: a gesture of respect, even though his middle is much too stiff for it. Then he’s leaving them, turning back to follow the path between the great arch of trees, and eventually, once he’s made his way inside, they’re left alone.

Tucked at the roots of the Last Mountain, deep in the dark woods of Fangorn beneath mountains so very different than their own, Glorfindel and Erestor stand alone. They came alone, journeying long over those very mountains, finally down into the valley, where the grass is thick and lush, even if the blue sky is difficult to see beneath the boughs of many trees. Glorfindel stands awaiting orders, wondering where they might make camp if not for the home of their host, but Erestor seems to have his mind made up. He’s always quick to do so, and very sure, garnering facts sooner and more thoroughly than Glorfindel, though Glorfindel can’t imagine what else Erestor has picked up about this forest—it’s all so rife with mystery. But Erestor closes his eyes and parts his lips, breathing it in, as though just savouring the tastes. When his lashes rise again, there’s an awe on his face that he would never have showed around Treebeard—around _anyone_ but Glorfindel.

“This place,” he murmurs, voice reverent and low, only to trail off and start again, almost laughing, “I am very glad I was chosen to come here.”

“Would that Lord Elrond could have come himself,” Glorfindel muses. “The news of Entwives is large indeed, if we are to make a friend of their kind again, though when he is not available, his chief councilor is the obvious choice.”

Erestor shakes his head lightly, stirring long, dark hair that shimmers in the fading light. “He could have easily sent any messenger—a Ranger, perhaps, or one of the guard.”

“And he did,” Glorfindel notes, gesturing towards his own chest. “The best he had with a sword, for you are the best without, and more than worthy of the escort.”

Erestor grins wryly but doesn’t tease him any more as they usually might. This place, though a valley like their home ripe with the flora of old, is so very _different_ , and Glorfindel can feel the subtle change for it. Erestor ends their conversation to look about some more, showing the wide-eyed wonderment of youth he lost centuries ago. Without any to witness it but Glorfindel, who’s seen him bare and raw many times before, he walks about the trees, hand occasionally lifting to touch the bark. Glorfindel follows him for a time, though the stars are rising and their horses wait. 

Finally, Erestor stops on his own and turns to ask, hushed in a marveled whisper, “Did _you_ ever wake an Ent?”

Despite the quietness of Erestor’s mood, Glorfindel can’t help a little laugh. “Just how old do you think I am?”

Erestor only smiles and shakes his head. Glorfindel almost wishes he _were_ so ancient, so he could tell Erestor all about singing trees to life. Instead, all he can do is give his beloved this: what remains, ages after, of the glory of their people. When Erestor seems finished with his wandering, he comes to Glorfindel and breathes, “Thank you for bringing me here.”

Glorfindel nods his head, then instinctively draws Erestor’s hand forward to kiss the back. “Of course,” he promises, “I would take you any where that you should wish, be it the Last Mountain, the Blue Mountains, or even the ragged peaks of Rhûn.”

“You would not let me go there,” Erestor all but snorts, to which Glorfindel sheepishly shrugs—it might be true. His will to make Erestor _happy_ is only matched by his will to keep Erestor _safe_. Erestor withdraws his hand from Glorfindel’s grip and sighs, “I suppose we better find the horses and make camp now, before we set out again and perhaps say goodbye to these strange people for the final time.”

“We could spend the night with Treebeard,” Glorfindel suggests, merely to draw the time out for Erestor.

But Erestor shakes his head, grin growing, and murmurs, “But I want to spend this perfect night with only _you_.” And then he entwines his fingers with Glorfindel’s, and they walk back along the roots.


End file.
